


The Long Night

by laveIIans



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Antivan Crows, Arguing, Betrayal, Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, Conflict Resolution, Dalish Origin, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Internal Conflict, Oneshot, POV Third Person, POV Zevran Arainai, Partner Betrayal, Present Tense, Romance, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-25 07:30:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17720810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laveIIans/pseuds/laveIIans
Summary: He still thinks about killing her sometimes. About what it would mean for him as a Crow; as a person. It would be so easy to slip into her tent under the cover of night, quiet as a cat, and slit her throat while everyone slept.Zevran wrestles with indecision and his love for Ashioin Mahariel as he contemplates the hardest decision of his life and the repercussions it might entail: following through with the contract on her life.





	The Long Night

He still thinks about killing her sometimes. About what it would mean for him as a Crow; as a person. It would be so easy to slip into her tent under the cover of night, quiet as a cat, and slit her throat while everyone slept. Then he could leave – maybe steal one of their horses, even, to really twist the knife – and be halfway to Denerim with her head in a sack before the rest of them woke up.

So he finds himself in her tent one night watching her sleep. Ashioin is breathing softly, noises muffled by her pillow, and her blanket is crumpled on one side from where he had left her bedroll to fetch his dagger from his own tent. Zevran rarely sleeps there now; he is so used to lying in her arms, falling asleep to the gentle thump of her heartbeat, hearing her murmur sweet nothings in Elvhen as she curls herself around him. She doesn’t know enough to string a full sentence together – at least none that would make any sense – but she still tries her best for him, turning the fragments of her knowledge into a rich tapestry woven from affection just for him and him alone.

Ashioin _showers_ him in it, constantly letting him know how much she loves him, whether through her words or little lingering touches and smiles, and he just wants to lose himself in it. Her love – and his, too, though admitting it frightens him – is like a bubble; a haven from the cold world outside, a warm blanket that always soothes and comforts. It is something constant he can always rely on, which is an unusual thing in this world of darkspawn and walking terrors.

He wants to stay wrapped in it and never leave.

She even found a pair of Dalish gloves for him when they had visited a clan in the Brecilian Forest; the fact she had remembered his story of his mother and given them to him without question had left him greatly touched, wondering how he could ever repay her. She wasn’t troubled by his past as a Crow, and she didn’t damn him for the fact his life had been blood-soaked and riddled with murder, lies and a deep, soul-wrenching pain.

 _“That was then,”_ Ashioin had said to him one night, her fingers twined in his hair, _“and this is now. If you feel you have to return to that life, even long into the future, I won’t stop you. You need to do what’s best for you, and I can’t live your life for you, vhenan.”_

_“You would have me, then? Even if I was a murderer?”_

_“Even so. As long as I don’t end up on your mark list someday, I’ll have you as long as this blighted body keeps me going.”_

_“You do realise, my dear, that you are one of my marks?”_

She had chuckled, propping herself up on her elbow as she looked deep into his eyes. _“I know. And that’s why I know you won’t go through with it.”_

_“And how could you possibly know?”_

_“Because I trust you, Zevran. Now come to bed.”_

* * *

 

The thought makes him falter. He had never fallen in love with a mark before, though he had played the part well enough that the men and women had fancied themselves exceptions, laughing away the threat until they found themselves on the wrong end of his blades. He has never fallen in love at all since _before_ , and he is wary to label their relationship with such strong terms. His beloved Warden could just as easily fall at the hands of darkspawn or any of the other battle-hungry folk who they crossed paths with, just as much as she could die by his hand. He would provide her a quick, merciful death at least, a much kinder fate than she would receive from anyone else. The thought of her dying at all is a cold, vice-like grip around his heart, clenching and squeezing until he cannot breathe, but dying by his blade is better than dying from the cruel, vicious, painful or drawn-out fate that she would otherwise receive. She deserves better, he knows, and he will grant her that gift of mercy; it is the best he can offer her, short of taking the killing blow himself.

To frame it through the lens of mercy is tempting, comforting even… but ultimately a lie. This is no mercy, Zevran reminds himself dully, but instead the familiar yank of a chain as he dances to the same old tune, even as his body grows weary from the repetition. It is a _duty_ , and not a mercy. This is a contract, a job, and his personal feelings do not matter. They have never been important enough to matter to the Crows before, and now is no exception.

The blade is heavy in his hand. He needs to act fast, and he is losing precious time the longer he stands and stares at her, watching her sleep peacefully. _I cannot look_. He squeezes his eyes shut and turns away, hands shaking as he tries to find a sliver of resolve to hang onto.

“If you’re going to do it, make it quick,” comes a quiet voice from the bedroll. He turns, seeing her looking at him from her side, one eye open while the other is gently shut. It looks at him as beadily as a hawk. “Otherwise, just come to bed.”

“¿ _Querida_?” He is dumbfounded, looking at her blankly until she sighs.

“Zevran, you’re an assassin _and_ my lover. You taught me how to sleep less deeply and wake up quick enough if I sensed a threat.” She rolls her eye, gesturing to the knife that now hangs limply in his hand, all bit forgotten. “Besides, if you were _really_ trying to kill me, you’d make it quick so I wouldn’t feel a thing. I know you.” She pats the bedroll before turning back on her side. “Now come to bed. I’m tired, and I _won’t_ appreciate being woke up late for nothing, _vhenan_.” He sees the freckles on her shoulder, the same dense crop that mark her cheeks just as visibly as her _vallaslin_ ; he had once tried to kiss them all but lost count, only succeeding in making them both breathless long before the rest of her clothing had been flung aside and forgotten about.

The blade clatters to the floor as he hastily undresses, clinging to her as if hoping the tighter they are pressed together, the sooner they can forget and move on. It won’t be that easy, he knows, but he needs to hold her, to feel her, to know she is _alive_.

“ _Querida_ ,” Zevran murmurs, breath hot against her neck. She stiffens slightly but does not respond. “ _Querida_ , _querida_ , _mi amor_.” He blinks away unshed tears, wiping them away roughly with the back of his hand; still no response, so he decides to try another approach. “ _Vhenan_ , I’m – ”

“Don’t you dare say it,” she hisses at him, still not turning to look at him. “Don’t you dare.”

“ _I’m sorry_ – ”

“What did I say?” Ashioin rolls over so roughly she barrels into him, nostrils flaring. She grasps him roughly, almost shaking him in her fury, and he sees her eyes brimming with the same tears.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps as she lets him go, beating limply against his chest as her tears fall. Every fibre of his body aches to reach out to touch and comfort her but his hands lie stiff against his thighs, unmoving; if he tries now, she will only slap him away.

“ _Why_ , Zevran?” Her voice shakes, and something snaps inside him. “You said you never would!”

“I never said that, _querida_.” His eyes leak, but this time he does not wipe them away. It stings, but he closes his eyes and endures the pain; he knows he deserves it.

“Zevran, I love you! _Why_?” She thumps a little harder than she intended to, and it makes him flinch slightly. Ashioin recoils as he moves, curling in on herself like a baby. “ _Why_ , Zevran?” Her voice is little above a whisper now, and when he looks at her, he sees only deep sadness in her eyes. _Betrayal_.

For a long time, he neither moves nor speaks, and she does the same. He waits until the last of his tears have fallen before drying his eyes; when he opens them, they sting so badly that he almost squeezes them shut once more. He does not want to see, or feel, anything: he wants to exist in this empty space, this void without feeling, and never surface.

  

 

* * *

 

“I was raised to be little more than a weapon,” Zevran says eventually, not quite meeting her gaze. “A tool to dispatch people to an early grave and nothing more. Any sentimentality was trained out of me a long time ago… or that was the hope, at least.”

Ashioin watches him, cautiously moving closer but still not touching him. He continues: “To talk of love, or any kind of emotional entanglement, was to play with a double-edged sword. The Crows loved us to use whatever tricks we could to grow closer to a mark, gain their trust and kill them without raising too much suspicion; if it was possible to seduce one, then they fully encouraged it, even if we…. if _I_ …” He breaks off before clearing his throat. “The humans find us attractive, as you know.”

“You told me this before, Zev,” she says softly, reaching out for his hand. He is unsure whether he should move closer. “About what happened with Rinna.”

“Then surely you can understand?” He finds himself squeezing her hand, desperately trying to communicate through touch what he is terrified of uttering. “Everything I feel for you, my training tells me is wrong. Yet I cannot help it.”

“And you really thought killing me was the answer?” Ashioin says it so dryly that he chuckles.

“I am an experienced assassin, that much is true, but in matters of the heart…” He pauses. “I did not expect to… find someone like you.”

“And _I_ did not expect to wake up to my lover botching an attempt at killing me, but here we are.” She sighs, frowning at him. “Are we going to talk about this properly, Zevran? Because if not, you can get out of my bed and go where the Creators will never find you.”

“I’m sorry, Ashioin.” He relaxes his grip on her hand but cannot bring himself to let go. “I… I am confused. I do not know how to act with you because I do not know how to feel. I don’t understand _what_ I’m feeling.” Zevran reaches out to stroke her cheek but she shakes her head, moving away from his touch.

“Then do as you always do.” She counts on her fingers, bristling. “Deflect serious things with jokes and avoid talking about it. Bottle it up until you get to a breaking point and try to kill someone. Don’t deal with anything in a healthy way. Did I miss anything?” she adds sarcastically.

“ _Querida, I’m trying!_ ” he begs her, voice cracking in desperation. “I’m _scared_.” Saying it out loud takes his breath away.

She stares at him for a moment. “… Scared?”

“ _Yes._ ” Hopelessly, desperately so. He breathes, calming himself down. “I love you, Ashioin.” He sees her smile at that, though he knows she will not forgive him yet. “I… acted in a moment of panic because I was scared to admit it, even to myself.”

“I’ll say.” She snorts. “Trying to kill me is quite the panic.”

“For a moment, I could see no other option.” She slides closer to him; they are inches away now, and he can feel her breath against his cheek. “I was so afraid of losing you that I thought the best thing would be to… to follow through.”

“Why didn’t you talk to me about it, _vhenan_?” Ashioin slides her hand around his neck. “I could have told you I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not tomorrow, never.”

He can feel the mood changing, shifting into something he can’t quite place; she isn’t feeling so angry anymore, especially now the threat has long passed, but she isn’t entirely past it, either. Not that he could blame her.

“But I – I don’t want to see you die,” Zevran says, trembling.

“We all die eventually, _querido_ ,” she whispers, stroking him. “If it wasn’t in battle, it would be the taint in my blood. At least you won’t have to see me grow old and grey,” she chuckles.

“But I _want to_ ,” he says stubbornly. “We’ll find a cure. We’ll even go to Tevinter if we have to, or a Rivaini seer, or… _anything_.”

“That would be nice. We could have a family, maybe. A little boy and a girl.” She smiles. “It just might be possible, seeing as you’re not a Warden and I’m new. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

He knows she is viewing it more as a fantasy, a pleasant thing beyond the realm of possibility, something that can never be realised… but he wants it more than anything.

“I will never hurt you, Ashioin. I promise you, I never want to.”

She clutches him, burrowing into the cleft of his right shoulder. “What about the Crows?”

He laughs, though it comes across more bitterly than he intends. “They don’t matter, _querida_. Only you. They can come for me with pitchforks, if they dare… and I’ll still best them all.”

Ashioin kisses him, and the fervour of her motions takes him off balance. He returns her kiss just as deeply and passionately, holding her to him and praying that this moment might last without end.    

When they eventually move apart, gasping for breath, she pleads with him: “Never leave me, Zevran.”

“Never,” he breathes in reply. “Never, Ashioin.”

“But the contract – ” she begins, but he cuts her off with a stern shake of his head.

“Loghain can send men after me if he likes. The Crows, too. More’s the fun, after all. But I won’t let them hurt you, you have my word.”

“And I won’t let them hurt _you_.” She crosses her arms as stubbornly as any child. “I love you, in case you’d forgotten that. I may not be some skilled assassin, but I’d like to think I’m Dalish enough to survive in the wilderness without any problems, if it came to that.”

The fact she is so willing to stay with him, to accompany him to the ends of the earth just to be with him, even if it means facing down a legion of angry Antivans baying for their blood… It means more to him than he can put into words.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

“I know.” She rests her head against his chest. “Goodnight, Zevran.”

“Goodnight, _mi amor_. Sleep well.”

She chuckles at that, moving to lie against him more comfortably. When she is finished, he kisses her forehead, which makes her sigh happily.

Zevran looks at the tent flaps, thoughts racing as he tries to put together everything that has just happened within the past few hours. He tries to pretend he does not feel Ashioin’s tears fall against his chest, or the muffled sounds of her crying.   

**Author's Note:**

>  **Vhenan** \- heart; a term of endearment in Elvhen  
>  **Querido/querida** \- darling  
>  **Mi amor** \- my love


End file.
